“I want a great big thick steak,” she said with obvious relish. “With mashed potatoes and lots of thick gravy. What do you want, Rand?”
She sent him a definitely un-librarian-like smile, and all his thoughts about librarians and undercover operations and incompetent sheriffs winged their way out of his head. He closed his eyes and clenched both hands into fists.
“Ice cream,” he answered. “That’s what I want. Something cooling.” Something to erase the image of Alice in that red satin dress.
Walking into the hotel restaurant caused a minor sensation. The entire room full of diners, almost all of them male, stopped talking and stared at Alice. Embarrassed, she tugged the red wool shawl she wore tighter around her shoulders to cover the revealing neckline and chose a chair facing the wall with her back to the patrons.
When conversation around them resumed, they placed their supper orders with the waiter, and Rand told her what he had discovered from Sheriff Lipscomb and Dr. Arnold, the coroner. Alice listened without interrupting, her mouth pressed into a thin line and her eyes filling with tears.
“You mean Dottie’s not even buried in a proper cemetery? That’s simply awful!”
“There’s more,” Rand said heavily. He waited until the waiter had set their plates down in front of them and retreated.
Alice ignored her supper and leaned toward him. “What ‘more’? Tell me.”
He reached for his steak knife. “Your sister was apparently very well liked in Silver City. Dr. Arnold said most of the people in town came to her funeral.”
He sliced off a bite of meat. “And,” he continued, “she was shot with a thirty-two-caliber bullet.”
“But you already knew she was shot, Rand.” She loaded her fork up with mashed potatoes, lifted it to her mouth and then lowered it without tasting it. Her lips, Rand noted, looked redder than usual. Rouged, maybe. Something inside him tightened. A large part of him didn’t want Alice to turn into Lolly Maguire.
“You already knew my sister had been shot,” she repeated.
“Yeah, but I didn’t know she’d been shot twice.”
Alice’s already shiny eyes widened into two pools of dark blue ink. “What? I don’t understand.”
He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “The coroner told me your sister was shot twice. He recovered one bullet from her back, but the other one—” He stopped at her stricken look.
She laid her fork down beside her uneaten steak, her face white as milk. “What does that mean, that she was shot twice? Two different killers? Or did the same person fire twice?”
“I don’t know what it means. But you can bet I’m going to find out.”
She drew in three deep breaths before she picked up her fork again. “While I am...um...entertaining the gentlemen at the Golden Nugget tonight, what will you be doing?” Her voice was shaky.
“Watching you.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks turned pink.
“There’s a killer somewhere here in Silver City, Alice. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“How do you know he’s still here? Or would it be a she?”
He thought about how to phrase his answer. “Because the sheriff in Owyhee County said it wasn’t a robbery. Your sister’s murder was very deliberate, not something done in haste. Whoever shot your sister meant to kill her and he, or she, took a good deal of care in doing it.”
Alice studied her plate of uneaten food. “Very well,” she said slowly. “I think it is time to go to work.”
The air in the Golden Nugget was blue with smoke and sour with the smell of liquor and old cigars. The minute Rand and Alice walked in, the place went silent except for the piano player, who went on pounding out “Clementine.”
Rand escorted Alice up to the bar, feeling the gaze of every male in the place following them. Or rather following Alice. Any red-blooded male would look his fill and he wouldn’t blame them one bit.
The bartender, a burly red-haired man with sharp blue eyes, swiped his greasy rag over the polished mahogany counter and then planted both elbows on it.
“You’ll be wantin’ something, I’m bettin’.” It wasn’t a question. Rand opened his mouth to order a beer when Alice spoke up.
“I’m wantin’ a job, sir.” She let her shawl drop just enough to show some cleavage. “I’m known as Lolly Maguire back in Chicago.”
The bartender’s eyes dropped to her chest. “Maguire, huh?”
“Sure and it is,” Alice said, her voice low and sultry.
Rand blinked.
“I want you to know that I can be quite friendly in the right company,” she said softly.
He blinked again.
“Oho,” the bartender said. “An’ what’s the right company, if it’s not too much to ask?”
“I am partial to the Irish,” she purred. “Irish men in particular.”
“Well, now, girlie—”
“Lolly,” Alice reminded. “Maguire. I haven’t been called ‘girlie’ since I was five years old back in County Clare, Mr....?”
“Donnell. Lefty Donnell. And what’ll ye be havin’ this fine night, Lolly Maguire?”
“Beer,” Rand said shortly.
Alice rested two fingers on the bartender’s beefy hand. “And I would like a chat with your piano player, if you please.”
Lefty Donnell’s red-blond eyebrows rose. “Hey, Samson!” he yelled. “Lady here wants to talk to ya.”
Alice sent Rand a quick look, stepped away from the bar and glided toward the piano against the far wall. Ignoring the tall glass of beer the bartender slid toward him, Rand couldn’t help but watch.
She spoke to the piano player, Samson, no more than a minute before he swiveled his stool around to the keyboard and placed his fingers on the yellowed keys. He looked to be Chinese, Rand thought. Short and compact, with jet-black hair and very white hands. He rippled out a cascade of notes, and Alice turned to face the patrons.
The piano sounded a chord and she began to recite. “‘’T’was Robin of Locksley and Little John, in Sherwood Forest hiding...’”
She’d added an Irish lilt to the words; it sounded like poetry spoken out loud.
Another rippling chord, followed by a pause.
“‘When King John came riding through the thick green woods...’”
More chords. Patrons began shushing their companions as Alice’s voice rose. Rand gulped down a swallow of his beer.
“‘...and spied a gleam of silver there...’”
By now the entire saloon full of miners sat as if spellbound. Even Rand listened, scarcely breathing. Where had this come from? he wondered. Was it something she had memorized? Or was she making it up as she went along?
Her voice rose and fell like dusky smoke, with a slight Irish lilt. “‘All soft among the greenwood trees...’”
Mouths hung open and drinks were forgotten as the men listened with rapt attention.